


Battle Wounds

by trollmela



Series: Lingering [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros is injured in the Battle of Fornost, and Glorfindel suddenly finds himself in a situation he does not want to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 1975 of the Third Age during the battle against Angmar.

Prince Eärnur was a good warrior. He was brave, like his father, but he was hot-headed, and he had his pride. Glorfindel cursed it now.

The combined forces of Rivendell and Gondor had eradicated the Witchking’s army. There was hardly anyone left but the Witchking himself, and the creature, perhaps sensing the man’s weakness, made straight for the prince.

Glorfindel urged his horse forward in an effort to prevent the confrontation, spying red hair out of the corner of his eyes on an elf attempting to do the same—or perhaps simply spurred on by battle-lust and a death wish. There was no logical explanation for why Maedhros had insisted on fighting in this battle.

In any case, they were both too late. Prince Eärnur wanted to stand his ground, but his horse was not so courageous. Its eyes rolled wildly, and it struggled against the rider. Eärnur was too focused on his enemy and readying his sword to see it, or perhaps he simply ignored it. The Witchking was only a couple of feet away when Eärnur’s horse finally shied and fled, the prince cursing on its back and beating its sides to try and turn it back.

The wraith laughed. Then Glorfindel and Maedhros arrived; and when the Witchking saw them, his laughter cut off abruptly, and it was he who turned his horse around and fled from the two elves’ raised swords.

Maedhros might have considered following him. His gaze lingered on the fleeing wraith, but when Glorfindel did nothing, the redhead gave the other elf a glance. Glorfindel shook his head, and while Maedhros was not his to command, the Fëanorion heeded his signal.

Prince Eärnur, however, returned just then, face twisted with anger.

“Why do you permit him to flee? He must be killed!”

And he made to do just that, but Glorfindel caught his horse by the reins and said:

"Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."

Maedhros knew when someone spoke with the voice of prophecy, and in this moment, Glorfindel did. Thus the matter was dealt with for him, but it was not so for the prince. Eärnur flushed with anger, and Maedhros guided his horse in front of Eärnur to block him.

“Glorfindel spoke with the foresight of the Valar,” the redhead said. “Do not believe a human can go against prophecy. His words will go down in history until the day the Witchking’s end arrives, and it will. If you do follow him, you will die.”

Faced with two high elves, Eärnur conceded defeat. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could do so, Maedhros’ body jerked forward. The red head’s eyes widened with confusion and surprise, and he fell forward in his saddle, an arrow lodged in his back.

Glorfindel cried out in shock. He dropped his sword and jumped off his steed, just in time to catch Maedhros as he threatened to slide out of the saddle. Eärnur took the reins to stop the horse’s nervous prancing.

Maedhros’ eyes were half-lidded but the elf quickly faded into unconsciousness and went limp in Glorfindel’s arms.

* * *

Glorfindel thoughtfully twirled the arrow through his fingers. It was no longer whole, of course. The end with the fletching they had broken off, the tip they had been forced to cut out of Maedhros’ back. Glorfindel wondered how many wounds like this Maedhros had received. Battle wounds, probably many.

Maedhros’ breathing changed, indicating that he was waking up. Glorfindel rose to pour him some Miruvor. The redhead stiffened almost imperceptibly, apparently taking in his surroundings before giving away that he was in fact awake. Glorfindel calmly waited for the elf to gather his bearings.

They had laid Maedhros onto his belly in a private tent, and now he turned onto his side with a strained expression.

“How long have I been out?” Maedhros inquired.

“Not long,” the other elf replied.

Glorfindel felt the bones beneath his hands as he helped the redhead sit up, uncaring whether the other elf liked it or not - he had no choice. Maedhros’ hand shook, and he struggled to lift the cup Glorfindel handed him. The golden elf had filled it nearly to the brim, and before long Maedhros spilled some of it, cursing as he did so.

Glorfindel noted how he seemed to be unable to close his hand around the cup as much as he should, and he mutely reached out and held the cup against Maedhros’ lips. The redhead drank deeply.

“What happened?” he asked once he’d had as much as he wanted.

“We don’t know,” Glorfindel admitted.

Putting the cup on the floor, he retrieved the arrow and showed it to the Fëanorion The fletching was of Elvish make.

Maedhros huffed with dark amusement. “An accident?”

The other elf shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Yet a dark shadow of doubt remained in his mind. They could not even tell who had shot it. Yes, it was Elvish, but the truth was that some humans had run out of arrows. As the elves were more skilled and quicker in making new ones, many humans had used Elvish arrows during the battle. Perhaps a human’s shot had gone wide and hit Maedhros by accident. Perhaps an elf had made a mistake - they were not immune to it.

Or perhaps an elf had shot the kinslayer on purpose.

“I see what you mean,” Maedhros said. He sounded neither surprised nor angry.

A weary look crossed his face.

“It does not matter. I will return to my fortress with my men, and you need not see me for a while.”

“That is probably best,” Glorfindel agreed, not regretting it in the slightest. “You should sleep to recover your strength. If you need help, call for me.”

He left the tent. It was not a good situation he found himself in. Prince Eärnur had still not calmed down, and Glorfindel needed to care for Maedhros and ensure that the redhead survived to go home; he owed it to Lord Elrond, and he had no right to judge one who should be judged by no one less than the Valar.

* * *

Maedhros would recover. The wound had not been harmless, but the redhead was not so easily killed. Glorfindel stayed with him, getting to know the elf’s habits better than he had ever thought he would.

Glorfindel had helped care for many elves even in the most personal tasks. And Maedhros was clearly used to being helped. Yet it felt different for Glorfindel with the redhead, and he often found himself surprised by what he learned.

Intellectually he had always known that, today, Maedhros was nothing like he had been in the First Age. And even so, he had hardly known the redhead then. He had merely seen the elf from a distance some time after his rescue from Thangorodrim and again during the Nirnaeth.

At those times he had seemed tireless, full of fire and life. Now it seemed to Glorfindel that that fire had diminished. It had not disappeared completely as had become evident during the battle. But it was lacking in the little things.

Maedhros always took his time sipping Miruvor when Glorfindel knew that the redhead had easily chucked back whole cups of wine back in Valinor, beating Turgon in drinking games more than once. He seemed to go from one resting place to the next, taking advantage of any chair, bed, or even the ground. He did not use his height to his advantage to intimidate, as Glorfindel just knew the redhead must have done back in the First Age. And he always seemed relieved to rest.

Moreover, he seemed to move more slowly than most elves. He nearly reminded Glorfindel of Galadriel, but she had never known battle as Maedhros, nor was he under the influence of Lothlórien. Battle reflexes did not leave a body so easily.

Glorfindel mulled over it, the details bothering him without him realizing why for a long time. Until one day a startling thought came to him, and he blurted out: “Are you fading?”

Maedhros, sitting up on his bed and polishing his sword, looked up and frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You move slowly, as if you are weary,” Glorfindel insisted.

“I’m injured,” the redhead argued.

“No, that’s not it. You used to be different in the First Age.”

“And how would you know?”

“I know because as much as we would like to deny it, we are warriors of the same kind. We do not tire unless it’s our time to die.”

Maedhros narrowed his eyes, his patience quickly coming to an end.

“You’re being impertinent.”

Glorfindel snorted. “Is that all you can come up with?”

The redhead glowered at him.

“Have you spoken to Elrond about it?” the reborn elf asked.

“I am _not_ fading. I believe I would know, wouldn’t I?”

“Probably, but would you admit it? You risked a lot, coming here,” Glorfindel went on.

“It was my choice.”

“So it was.”

The golden elf studied Maedhros, but the other elf gave nothing away. He was clearly done talking. And Glorfindel could not say with absolute certainty that he understood the other elf as well as he claimed.

“I will leave with my men in two days,” Maedhros announced.

He could do that, as his injury had healed enough that travelling was no longer impossible.

Glorfindel nodded. “You will need to take it easy. Take rest often and don’t ride too quickly.”

“I know what to do,” Maedhros only replied. “Come see me tomorrow. I’m writing a letter to Elrond which I would like you to take back with you.”

“Of course.”

“And I would appreciate it if you didn’t bother Elrond with fantasies regarding my health.”

“That decision I shall make myself, Russandol,” Glorfindel replied, deliberately calling the elf by his epessë which in his case was usually only used by friends.

The redhead’s lips twisted with displeasure. “Of course you will.”

He turned his back, signalling that Glorfindel’s presence was no longer desired.

* * *

Their leave-taking was as cool as their greeting. Glorfindel’s brief sentiment of having achieved a better understanding of Maedhros had vanished. They parted as nothing more than allies who respected each other in some ways and not in others.

Glorfindel kept a watchful eye on the men gathered to see them off. Humans found elven faces hard to read; elves were only slightly better at it. Glorfindel did get the impression that some were glad to see Maedhros leave. That in itself, however, was nothing unusual, as even those who had not been around in the First Age were often uncomfortable with Maedhros’ presence. Yet no one showed particularly great emotion. Thus the question of whether Maedhros’ injury had been an accident or an assassination attempt was never answered.

The redhead himself did not seem to think on it. Glorfindel held Maedhros’ horse as the elf swung into the saddle. He practically ignored the crowd, probably long used to people watching him either as prince or king, and he was just as used to ignoring it.

He gave Glorfindel a polite nod, nothing more than what was expected and appropriate.

“Travel safely,” Glorfindel said.

There was nothing else to say. He had Maedhros’ letter for Elrond, and what he would ultimately report to his Lord or not remained to be seen. Nevertheless, he was certain that he had not seen the last of Maedhros.


End file.
